


Let's Fall in Love and Kill People

by showmethebeefy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Chuck only really comes in at the end, M/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-21
Updated: 2014-09-21
Packaged: 2018-02-18 05:06:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2336360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/showmethebeefy/pseuds/showmethebeefy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Destiel serial killers AU. Dean goes to meet the killer who's been leaving him love notes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let's Fall in Love and Kill People

**Author's Note:**

> Truth be told, this is majorly influenced by my love for Hannibal. I was watching it a lot at the time and I thought, hey, I want to write this. I hope it's decent. Maybe I'll write more some time?

“So, it’s been _you_ who’s been leaving me all those love notes,” Dean drawls, a half smile lazily draped across his befreckled face. He saunters forward, hands spread wide as if to show that he’s unarmed and therefore safe. As if the man opposite him doesn’t know he’s just as dangerous without weapons as with them.

“I don’t know if I’d call them love notes,” the blue eyed man replies, a quirk in his thin lips, “but yes, that was me.”

“You’re the Angel Murderer. You.” Dean chuckles slightly. “Sorry, but you don’t look like much. More of a tax accountant than a murderer who kills all those young and pretty sinners and makes them into art. But then, that’s just my interpretation of you.”

“And you’re the double agent,” replies the Angel Murderer. “The man who can replicate someone else’s crime so perfectly he must have the crime scene photos memorized. Pardon me saying so, but you look far too pretty to be able to commit murders, if you don’t mind my saying so.” He pauses. “Don’t judge people by their appearances, _Dean Winchester_. That’s how we survive, by looking like we can’t do the things we do.”

“How do you know my name?” Dean demands. “I mean, you make a fair point, but _how?_ ” He can feel the footing in the situation shift in the Angel Murderer’s advantage, and judging by the satisfaction scrawled across the man’s scruffy face, so does the Murderer.

“Please, Dean, I have been observing you for months,” replies the blue-eyed man. “You should have figured that into your assessment of the situation. Be more observant next time.”

Dean rolls his eyes, but nods his head. Understandable.

“Can I at least know your name?” he inquires. “You know, to make it fair?” The man hesitates before responding.

“Castiel,” Dean repeats, rolling the word around on his tongue. “It’s very…angelic. Is that your birth name, or did you change it after you decided God-themed murder was your gig? Cause I got a feeling it’s the latter option.”

“You would be correct,” Castiel admits, grimacing.

“It’s a nice choice,” Dean says, baring his pearly whites in an altogether charming manner. “Very artistic, not too cliché, pretty obscure… it’s got an almost artistic flair to it. Bravo, I say. Bravo.” Castiel nods, and just the hint of a smile crosses his face.

“Thank you. God came to me one night in a dream and told it to me, so naturally it would be a good name,” Castiel replies. Dean furrows his brow in the concentration of trying not to show his disbelief in front of this obviously very devout psycho. He nods, and Castiel smiles, sunny as can be. It sends chills down Dean’s back.

“So… why are you telling me all this?” Dean finally inquires.

“Oh, I figured it didn’t matter, as I am planning on killing you anyway,” Castiel says nonchalantly.

“ _What_?” Dean says, body going cold. Has he walked right into a trap?

“Yeah, we can’t have you copying us anymore. Sorry, Boss’s orders.” Castiel pulls a long, hiltless knife out of a pocket on his tan trench coat. “It’s nothing personal. In fact, I love your work. The attention to detail, the obvious painstaking care and time, the occasional torture victims left hanging by a thread…” Castiel makes an appreciative noise as he examines his blade, and Dean is oddly flattered as he stands fixed in place by the chill root of fear. “But, it can’t be helped. The Boss wants you dead, or nearly so, because if there’s one thing the Boss hates…” Castiel brought his knife out at the ready. “It’s plagiarism.”

“Castiel, please. See reason here. You left me all those hearts at those crime scenes, strung up from chandeliers and tree branches. Are you really going to go back on the love letter in murders you wrote me, just because your boss wants me dead?” Dean laughs, but it isn’t a happy laugh. It’s desperate. “Please. If it’s a matter of punishment, well, run away with me.”

“What?” Castiel sounds startled.

“Yeah… run away with me!” Dean sounds convinced of what he is saying now. “We can hide out somewhere out of country, lay low for a while, deal only in cash and passports bought on eBay from accounts of friends of friends… we’ll be safe. I promise. The things you made for me, you don’t have to throw them away.” Dean takes a step forward, stretches his hands out more away from his sides. “Please?”

Castiel hesitates, eyes full of an emotion that Dean knows well despite only having met the guy in person for the first time. Dean knows this emotion because it was told of in the art that Castiel left behind for Dean. Dean fell in love from afar, without ever seeing the man who painted him a gruesome picture of love, and it seems that Castiel has the same feeling, even if he feels he needs to deny it.

“Okay.” Castiel drops the knife.

“Okay?” Dean’s voice is disbelieving.

“Okay.” Castiel nods, affirming. They step closer together, are almost about to touch.

“If you’re quite done referencing John Green novels,” says a voice from the shadows, as footsteps sound, “would you please continue with the disposing of one Dean Winchester, Operative Castiel?” A small, scruffy man steps out of the shadows. Dean recognizes him as author Chuck Shurley, pseudonym Carver Edlund. Castiel’s face goes white.

“Boss,” he says in hushed tones.

“Shit,” says Dean.


End file.
